The mist became a light sprinkle as Diana snaked the SUV up a mountain full of oaks. A man pulled up beside them on a recumbent bike.

Blake choked on his medicine. “How’s he able to keep up with us on a bike?”

“Electronic assistance. He’s eighty‑three and always rides parallel to us whenever we go to the marriage counselor.”

“Marriage counselor? We’ve got marital problems?”

“Since Christine was born. Then you had a car crash and got merry-go-round syndrome.”

“I don’t remember. But I do remember parallel lines are straight. That man isn’t parallel on a curving road.”

“Let’s ask the marriage counselor,” Christine said.

The cyclist stayed beside them until they reached a towering castle. He waved and continued ahead as the drawbridge lowered across a moat.

Christine led the way on her hoverchair until they reached two archways. One said BLACK. One said WHITE. Each held a flaming torch.

Blake grabbed one, and said, “These hallways are straight and parallel. I’ll take the black one. You two take the white.”

Blake’s “straight” hallway soon sloped, curved, and zigzagged before opening into a huge cavern lit by fluorescent walls glowing through a waterfall of spring water.

After Blake reached it, he gasped when he saw Diana and Christine already there.

A man in a gray monk’s robe, long white hair and beard draped over a stone table, waved him forward.

Blake sat. “How did you two get here so fast?”

“We’re fast, Daddy,” Christine said.

The marriage counselor gulped from a bottle and kind of wobbled around.

Blake stared. “For God’s sake, man, you’ve got cerebral palsy.”

The man laughed. “No, I’m drunk. I’m Roach Rhino. I’ve been your marriage counselor for six years.”

“We’ve met before?”

“Many times, but you always forget. Any questions?”

“Yes. My wife thinks lines don’t have to be straight to be parallel.”

Roach swallowed. “She’s right. Any two lines at equal distance are parallel, even if they curve, zigzag, or break down into fractal shapes.”

“That’s outrageous,” Blake said. “When did reality go wrong?”

A black cat jumped on the table. Then a white one. Then dozens more.

Roach shooed them away. “Reality has always been wrong. Just like your marriage. What’s wrong?”

“My wife has denied me sex ever since our daughter was born.”

Diana sighed. “That’s when you started having panic attacks. And you still do.”

Blake rubbed his chin, unable to remember.

Roach laughed as cats played with his beard. “Your wife gives you all the love you need. You’re in denial because you think your daughter is an abomination of nature.”

Blake gasped. “Really?”

Roach folded his hands. “What’s your goal in life, Blake?”

“The Grand Exodus. No disabled person left behind.”

“At least you remember that. Including your wife and daughter?”

“Absolutely. They’re both handicapped.”

“No way, Daddy,” Christine said.

“Me either,” Diana added.

Blake looked at Diana’s legs. “You two are against me? Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“Blake,” Diana said, “we made love last night.”

“This is no time to talk about sex.”

“You’re the only one talking about sex,” she said.

Roach took a long swig. “Blake, next time you talk with your wife and daughter, close your eyes and listen for their love. Will you try?”

Blake slumped. “I’ll try.”

They left the cavern and drove to a white ranch house in a valley.

Inside, Blake gasped. Paintings and sculptures of cats filled the rooms.

“Whose artwork is this?” he asked.

“Mine,” Christine said. “I started when I was one.”

“She was sculpting by age two,” Diana said.

They sat on the sofa. Diana rubbed her silky black hair on his shoulder.

She was a phony — but soothing and gorgeous. He’d accept her. And her phony daughter too.

He closed his eyes, remembering Roach’s advice.

He mumbled, “Einstein said whoever sets himself up as judge of truth is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods.”

“You’re talking to yourself,” Diana said. “How can you remember some things perfectly but not others?”

“I only need to remember the Grand Exodus.”

Christine glided in front of him. “Do you love me, Daddy?”

Blake rubbed his chin.

“When I grow up, I’m going to walk in a beauty pageant.”

“That’s outrageous. You need to face reality, young lady.”

She gave him a raspberry and scooted off.

Blake sighed. “There’s no discipline in this house.”

“She may be right,” Diana said. “Scientists are closing in on God’s mistakes.”

“I need to simplify my life,” Blake said.

“Your life is already simple,” Diana said. “You drink and give speeches.”

“For God’s sake, at least give me credit for being disabled.”

“Daddy’s got cerebral palsy,” Christine called.

“No, he doesn’t,” Diana said. “He’s drunk.”

Blake watched Christine shape a wire cat. Even if she became a great artist, she’d still be trapped in an imperfect body.

She looked at him, then zipped away.

Blake walked to the window. A mountain range full of houses stretched before him — shacks, cubes, globes, domes, pyramids, crystal castles.

“We have a lot of neighbors,” Blake said.

“We do indeed,” Diana replied.

He felt a sudden yearning to speak with them and stepped outside. The rain clouds had reformed, but he kept walking across the field. He didn’t care if he got wet.

Diana and Christine waved from the door as if he were leaving on a long trip. He waved back.

At the edge of the forest, he found a red brick road and followed it until dusk, when he reached a cotton mill covered in cobwebs. Inside, cotton bales surrounded cotton gins. Beside them stood a recumbent bike with a full fairing.

Behind the mill, he found a log cabin. The warped door grated loudly as he opened it.

Inside stood a scowling old woman with her hands on her hips. “You stink!” she yelled.

Blake looked down and was shocked to see his gnarled hands. He touched his face and felt wrinkles from years of experience.